Two halves of the whole
by JennaEf
Summary: A view of small moments, defining the characters of two friends. Intended to be a series of one-shots. Disclamer: don't own, merely playing with them.
1. Two halves of the whole

Two halves of the whole

Such moments don't happen often now, their novelty frayed slightly with passing time. They are just the small parts of a day-to-day life, taken in stride and assumed to be. But they are not taken for granted; on the contrary, they are treasured, cherished and stored safely away in the memory of two infallible friends.

The kaleidoscope of emotions, fleeting across Sherlock's face while he waits for John to voice his opinion.

Disbelief transforming into amazement in John's eyes when Sherlock explains his conclusions.

Sherlock leaning into John's personal space to say something, not meant to be heard by anybody else.

John, pursing his lips and balling his hands into fists, trying not to lash out at Sherlock, even when the younger man deserves it.

Sherlock, outlining his words with the movements of his hands and sometimes with his whole body.

John, snatching his phone or notebook out of Sherlock's hands, when the detective once again borrows said item without asking, and Sherlock imperturbably steepling his fingers and raising his eyebrow in reaction.

Sherlock's unwavering devotion to his job, and John's unrelenting determination to keep his flat mate safe and sound.

John, calling Sherlock's name again and again to get his attention while the dark-haired man rattles his deductions at breakneck speed, and halting the great detective with the simple and easy solution of the problem.

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitching upwards, forming a ghost of half-smile on his face, and his patented grin, lighting his whole face.

John, easily falling into step beside Sherlock or dashing after him across London.

The almost sensual 'oh', when Sherlock finally connects the dots and solves the case.

John – solid, dependable, steady, calm – like metal or earth, and Sherlock – changeable, elusive, unpredictable, enigmatic – like air or fire; the perfect match, two halves of the whole.

The words, seldom spoken, but heard clearly between those two.

"_I'm glad you're here"_

"_I'm glad you've noticed"_


	2. Triple bluff

**Triple bluff**

There was a question in John's eyes, the one which he not yet dared to ask. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Do you realize that this is annoying? Spill."

"What?"

"The questions. Ask them."

"But I didn't…"

"It's written all over your face. Go on, ask."

"Okay. Two pills. Which is which? Did you figured it out?"

Consulting detective smiled and leaned back.

"What do you think?"

"Me?"

"Yes. Surely you got a theory, otherwise you wouldn't have asked."

"Well..," the shorter man frowned, "Two pills, one safe, one poisoned. He makes his move, slides one of them towards you. Could be the safe one, but you are the genius, so can't be that obvious."

Dark-haired man clapped his hands together.

"Good. Really good. You are making considerable progress. Go on."

"Do I?"

Sherlock pulled a face, suddenly very much resembling his older brother – head tilted to the side, eyebrows raised, small smile tugging at his lips. Doctor mentally shook himself and continued.

"So far, I've counted four possibilities. Your pill could be safe or poisoned. The same could be said about his. Whatever you choose, it is fifty/fifty chance. I don't pretend that I can get into your head and think like you, so from my idiotic point of view: if this is fair game and he intends to kill me, he'll keep the safe pill for himself. But if he double-bluffing, he'll give it to me..," he abruptly stopped and rubbed his temples. "You know what? I'm stuck. And my head hurts."

The great detective steepled his hands.

"On the contrary. Well done. There's only one thing you've missed."

"Yeah?"

"Triple bluff."

"Which is?"

Sherlock leaned forward towards his companion, his eyes glinting mischievously.

"Both pills are poisoned, John."

"But that's impossible!"

"Not if you consider the possibility. It's dosage that counts, John."

Sherlock watched as the realization dawned on his friend.

"Oh," ex-army medic said simply. "Of course."

"Good," the detective reached out for his fortune cookie. "So what do you say? Shall we?"

"I'd love to see you try," John grinned widely.


	3. 62 percent accurate

**A/N: we all remember the scene from "The Blind Banker", when Sherlock tries to ****maximise**** John's visual memory. This is my humble thoughts about how it all felt for John… **

**62 percent accurate**

Walking, looking around and trying to find traces of the yellow spray-paint.

He was exhausted, plain and simple. He was human, after all, he needed sleep, and he needed food. But even ten minutes of rest looked like a luxury he couldn't afford right now. Because Sherlock bloody Holmes was on the case, and that meant John tagging along and forcing himself to neglect his body's needs.

He found himself shivering, despite his relatively warm clothes. The evening's air was cool, granted, but it was quite bearable, and becides, John was moving constantly. 'You're overtired,' his brain supplied helpfully. 'Yes, probably, but I can't do anything about it at the moment, can I?' he snarled mentally.

Great. Now he was arguing with himself. What next?

Distracted, he almost missed it, but the second later his eyes focused on the bright yellow splashes on the ground. Frowning, he raised his head slowly, looking around. There were markings on the wall in front of him but it was already too dark to see them clearly, so John pointed his flashlight at the wall, and his eyes widened…

'Found it!' he thought triumphantly, getting his phone out of his pocket and dialing Sherlock's number. But of course his companion was too busy to answer, so he tried to send the text.

Still nothing.

'Bloody typical,' he thought. 'Now I should go and find you, isn't it, Sherlock? As if I hadn't had enough running around and chasing your coat-tails already!'

Frustrated, he started to walk away, but suddenly a thought occurred to him, and he stopped abruptly. Fishing out his phone again, he snapped a photo of the entire set of markings, and then pocketed the phone with satisfaction. At least now he had an advantage, just in case.

Turned out that he was right after all, because when he finally found Sherlock and they hightailed it to the wall, the markings were painted over. It came as a surprise for the doctor, but still he smiled inwardly, knowing full well that the picture on his phone will make the consulting detective quite happy. Lost in thoughts, he was absolutely unprepared when Sherlock advanced on him suddenly and grabbed his head then slid his hands down, grasping his arms and starting to spin him around. He barely heard his companion's words, but still managed to stutter something in return, desperately trying to explain to Sherlock, that everything's fine and he got the photo. But Sherlock was having none of it, rapidly firing a string of questions at him and not bothering to hear the answers. In the end John practically had to wrestle himself out of Sherlock's grasp in order to get to his pockets and finally brandish his phone at the irritated detective. His head was spinning by that time, so he even stumbled a little. And Sherlock just stood here, looking at him and not moving, not saying a word in return.

The sensation of Sherlock's hands on his body was odd, but at the same time strangely comforting and reassuring. The consulting detective obviously wasn't the touchy-feely type when it came to the living people, and John considered himself almost honored. But that thought vanished too quickly, replaced with the realization that he, even in the small way, outsmarted the great Sherlock Holmes. For John Watson, it was a 100 percent winning situation.

So why did he suddenly feel so cold when Sherlock had let him go?


	4. Centuries old

**A/N: A missing scene from The Blind Banker, from Sherlock's point of view.**

**Centuries old  
**

When the crack of the gunshot echoes through the museum, you freeze momentarily, a string of possibilities flashing in your mind with the speed of lightning.

You push them aside, because it's useless to theorise before you have all the data.

The silence is pressing heavily on you, daring to move, to call out, to DO something. Time ticks away inexorably, and you're just continuing to stand motionless, waiting for something – although you can't seem to realise what it is exactly are you waiting for.

Finally, slowly, you move. You take a few hesitant steps, as if testing the safety of the silence, and when nothing happens, your body spurs into action automatically. You find yourself running, and the single name seems to repeat itself in your mind in a perfect sync with your madly beating heart.

JohnJohnJohnJohnJohn…

Doctor John Watson, ex-military, field surgeon, invalided home from Afghanistan, used to have a psychosomatic limp, a crack shot and generally, a very good person.

He came into your life quite recently, but sort of managed to stake a claim for a place in it. Took you some time to accept the changes, but you did it finally, starting to regard John as part and parcel of your daily life.

And you don't particularly like losing things you chose to invest yourself into.

Keeping your pace, you storm into the restoration room and come into a halt, your eyes automatically adjusting to the semi-darkness.

At first, you don't seem to see or hear anything. But a moment later something draws your attention – a sound, which you can describe as the combination of a gasp and a chocked sob. You carefully move forward, navigating your way around the obstacles, until you finally see them – Soo Lin and John, dead and alive, frozen in time and space like sort of a sculpture.

In John's case – a moving sculpture, because the good doctor leans on the table heavily, his shoulders shaking with the suppressed sobs.

You stay where you stopped – observing, cataloguing, deducing. It's easier not to care this way, because logic is always opposed to feelings, and logic sort of became your safety blanket over the years.

There were times when you used to care. But every time it ended with the loss and the pain, so finally you chose not to do that anymore. Closed your heart, stomped down on your feelings, shut everyone out.

Stopped living in your heart, started existing in your mind.

Until John.

Ordinary, predictable, ridiculous John, who sneaked his way past your defenses and caused something to start stirring in your seemingly non-existing heart.

The same heart that now clenching painfully in your chest at the sight of John desperately trying to be strong.

It's only when his hand covers yours you realise that you had moved towards him and placed your hand on his shoulder, trying to comfort him.

He doesn't turn around, just holds onto your hand tightly.

Your mind seems to be arguing with your body, when you take a step forward and press yourself against John, tugging your hand free and then sliding an arm around his chest.

He doesn't pull away, so you decide to continue holding him. It feels strange and awkward, and you're not used to do this anymore, but if it makes John feel better, then you're willing to continue.

Finally he starts to speak, shifting in your grasp slightly. "Thank you," he says gratefully, attempting to move away. You let him go immediately and step back, afraid to cause any discomfort. He turns around and looks straight into your eyes, and there's a smile on his face – sad and soft, and filled with understanding.

No other words are being said – there's no need. Your brain kicks into gear, and you welcome its usual buzzing, allowing yourself to be pulled into your accustomed world of reason and logic.

"We need to pay a visit to Dimmock," you say firmly, and John nods.

"Yes, you're right," he agrees, his voice cold and flat. "It's time for him to start actually DOING something about all that."

You recognise this voice and smile inwardly, anticipating the treatment Dimmock is about to get.

John turns and strides towards the exit with determination, and you start to follow when something on the floor catches your eye.

A ceramic teapot, smashed to pieces.

'Centuries old. Don't break that' you said.

Now it's broken.

Irreplaceable.

Like Soo Lin's life.

You used not to care.

You do, now.

Because of John.

For him, you let your heart show for a moment.

And that's a start of becoming alive again.

**A little note: actually, as for now I have no plans to continue this fanfic, unless, of course, there's something you want me to write about. So, prompts and ideas very much appreciated. Thank you in advance!**


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